Carolyn G. Hart (24 page)

Kelly reached out and traced her fingers over the raised pattern in the upholstery of the small Queen Anne wingback. “Fritz is a dangerous man. What did Elliot have on him?”

“Apparently he blew away his best friend so he could inherit a valuable beachfront cottage at Carmel.”

“Fritz is a planner, the kind of person who takes what he wants.”

“Then there’s Capt. Mac.” Max’s voice was as curdled as sour milk. “A paternity suit.”

“At least he didn’t kill somebody,” Annie exclaimed protectively.

Kelly’s green eyes darted from Annie to Max, brightly, perceptively.

Annie was getting pretty damn sick of perception.

“So Capt. Mac’s libido caused him some difficulty. Not surprising. But he’s capable and intelligent. A cool customer. Of course, that’s what you would expect from someone who’s headed a police force. Tough. Ruthless. Very savvy.”

“Capt. Wonderful,” Max said sarcastically.

Kelly slipped gracefully into the wingback chair and looked at him, amused. “You asked for my opinion. I didn’t say I liked the man—either.”

Max scooted away from that one. “Well, off the top of your head, who’s the most likely suspect?”

Kelly gave them an enigmatic smile. “I’d rather know
what each of you thinks. Your choice will be so revealing.”

T
he breeze through the open sunroof ruffled Annie’s hair, which hadn’t been combed in some time. As the Porsche rattled over the wooden bridge, and they left the ruins of Fort Hendrix behind, she blew out a whoosh of relief. “My God, that woman’s enough to give you the creepy crawlies for life. I don’t think Hal can be the good old boy everybody takes him for.”

“I’m not taking him for a good old boy,” Max said drily.

Her lips quivered in a smile. “I guess I have a perverse streak. I was pretty well set on Emma, until Kelly said she could be the villain. Now I keep thinking of Emma’s good points.”

“Such as?”

Annie laughed. “She’s a nice guest. She brought extra chips and clam dip Sunday night.”

“And a poisoned dart?” He gunned the motor, then turned right onto the blacktop.

“Hey, wait. Where are you going? Let’s go back to the shop. I’ve got some ideas, and we have to hurry before the ferry leaves.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“Who do you think you are? Phil Marlowe? We can’t spend the afternoon slaking your insatiable thirst. We’ve got work to do.”

But he was already past the checkpoint and turning into Parotti’s tavern parking lot when a siren sounded behind them. The Porsche smoothed to a stop, and Max turned an
indignant face toward the big motorcycle cop. “I was going twenty-eight miles per hour. A motorized wheelchair could have passed me.”

Annie recognized the young giant as the second of the Broward’s Rock force, the one who’d dusted for fingerprints in Death On Demand after Elliot was killed. Now he placed ham-sized hands on the doorsill and ignored Max to fix her with a gimletlike stare out of his beady eyes. She started to bristle even before he spoke.

“Just a word to the wise, Miss Laurance.” He radiated a thick scent of spicy cologne.

Was there ever a phrase better designed to incite rebellion?

“You’d better stay put. The chief told me to keep an eye on you.”

Before Max could pull on his barrister’s wig, Annie attacked. “Do they pay you extra to be officious?” she demanded, gray eyes glittering dangerously.

Max held up a hand, clearly a warning to cease and desist.

“Sure, I’m official,” the cop retorted.

“Officious,” she repeated loudly. “As in rude, overbearing, and gratuitously self-important. Just like Inspector Slack.”

The young giant’s face turned a dull plum color. “You can talk just as fancy as you like, lady. But you better watch your step, or you’re going to jail.” With that, he swung on his heel, remounted his motorcycle, and roared off in the direction of the village.

Annie slammed the front door to Death On Demand so hard the front window quivered and a display copy of
Break In
tumbled down. “I’m
mad.”

“Cool down, Tiger.” Max moved down the central aisle, carrying the sack from their side excursion to Parotti’s tavern.

Flicking on the lights, she followed, too infuriated to take time to pet Agatha, who registered her contempt with a resentful yellow glare.

Max put two six-packs of Bud Light on the coffee bar, then opened the refrigerator.

“Want a beer?”

“I’d rather have that cop’s head on a platter.”

“Annie, Annie,” he said mournfully. “What are we going to do with your temper?” He lifted the beers from their cardboard cartons and put all but two away. “I’m doing my best to keep you out of jail, and that famous Laurance temper’s going to get you tossed in the can before nightfall. Honey, didn’t you ever learn it’s easier to sweet-talk your way out of trouble?”

She banged a stack of
Sugartowns
into a neat pile. Some of the flush began to die out of her cheeks, and she could almost smile. “Okay. So I’ve got a short fuse.”

“That’s not all bad—depending upon what you’re triggering.” His dark blue eyes glinted meaningfully.

She reached up and ruffled his hair. “Stow it, lecher.”

“Seriously, sweetie, you’re going to have to button your lip. The chief isn’t like that director you reamed out when they were casting ‘Sailors Ashore.’ ”

“That sorry clown took his feebleminded script too seriously.” She put her hands on her hips, ready to do battle. “At least Saulter hasn’t made a pass at me.” Her brows drew together. “I wonder why the hell not?”

Max laughed uproariously. “My God, you can’t have it both ways.”

“Well, just let him try,” she said in a steely voice.

He opened two beers and handed one to her. “Come on, chum, cool off. You waste too much energy being mad.”

She tilted up the brown bottle, then set it down without tasting its contents. “You know something, we are incompatible.”

“Just because I believe in avoiding trouble?”

“That’s one reason. But it typifies …”

He grinned and reached across the coffee bar to touch a fìnger lightly to her lips. “Typify’s the kind of word Kelly Rizzoli likes. She could undoubtedly draw up a list of incontrovertible reasons why you and I should avoid interpersonal relationships.” His hand traced the line of her cheek. “But she’d be wrong.”

She should firmly push his hand away, but another kind of short fuse was ticking.

“Everyone says it’s foolish to pursue relationships that
will deadend—” She didn’t finish. Max’s lips got in the way. The coffee bar was an obstacle, but neither paid any attention to it. Who moved first? Who cared? Their lips met, and Annie stopped analyzing, analogizing, and pontificating.

The phone rang.

Annie didn’t quite have her breathing under control when she answered.

Max looked savagely at the phone.

“Yes, Chief?” she said icily.

“Understand you and that pet lawyer of yours are out bothering people.”

“It’s a free country. Or so I thought.”

“You have no call to go around interviewing people. Mrs. Morgan resents it.”

“The ex-Mrs. Morgan knew all about the Sunday night session—and she was pretty annoyed that Elliot wasn’t forking over her alimony on schedule,” Annie said furiously.

A voice broke in. “Hey, you people better leave Carmen alone.” She pictured a meaty face with beady brown eyes.

“Butt out, Bud.”

So that was Inspector Slack’s name.

“Ms. Laurance, I’m calling to give you another chance. You keep your face out of my investigation. I’ve got enough trouble on this island without you and your boyfriend playing detective. Bud was just giving you some friendly advice.”

“I have some friendly advice for Bud,” she retorted. “His pal, Carmen, is a real pistol, and she wanted money—”

“Hey, lady, you watch your mouth about Carmen. What d’you mean, she’s a pistol?”

“And, furthermore, Chief, have you found out who inherits Elliot’s money?”

“Of course.”

“Who?”

“That’s no business of yours.”

“If you’re going to slap me in chains tomorrow, you can bet my lawyer will
make
it his business.”

Finally, Saulter spoke, and there was just a hint of consideration in his voice. “He hadn’t changed his will.”

“So Carmen inherits?”

“Yes.”

Bud was still fuming. “Hey, wait a minute. Nobody’s going to hang a rap on Carmen. Me and her were on the beach Sunday night.”

Not Inspector Slack, Annie decided. Mike Hammer on a vacation.

“Bud, get off the line.” After an instant, there was a click. “Okay, Ms. Laurance, you and your boyfriend have your fun—but I’ll be over to talk to you in the morning. And you better have some good answers.” He hung up.

She replaced the receiver. “The tumbril’s going to roll first thing in the morning.” Her voice was light, but she glanced up at the clock. “Oh Lord, we’ve got to get cracking. It’s ten after five. Come on, Max, let’s split up the work. You summarize what we learned from everybody, and I’ll call around and see if I can find out where everybody was when Harriet was killed.”

Max spread out his notes from the day on the table nearest the coffee bar. He draped himself comfortably in a chair, took off his brown cordovan loafers, wiggled his toes, and drank some more beer.

She called Emma first.

“Yes?” The mistress of mysteries was not cordial.

“Emma, where were you between five and six
P.M
. Monday?”

There was a chilly pause. “I understand Harriet died about then,” she said finally. “Is that what prompts this call?” She laughed softly. “You are indefatigable, aren’t you? I was here, my dear. In my office. Working.”

“I thought you wrote in the mornings.”

“That’s right. And in the evenings, too, when I’m close to the finish.”

“How about 9:45 Sunday morning?”

“Now that’s something new.” Her tone was assured and amused. “Is there a corpse no one’s told me about?”

“No. That’s when the murderer hid the dart in Death On Demand.”

“Oh my, you and Mr. Darling do seem to be clever at discovering things. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. I was working. The next time I get involved in a murder, I’ll be sure to order my time better.”

Emma sounded quite good-humored now. She certainly didn’t feel threatened by their investigation so far.

Annie took a flyer. “How about ten-thirty
P.M
. Wednesday, July seventeenth?”

“Is there any semblance of reason behind that question?”

“Somebody pushed Uncle Ambrose off his boat.”

“Interesting that you know the exact time.”

Annie would have given a hot reply, but Emma swept on.

“Sorry, dear, I don’t keep a diary—and I wasn’t skulking around the harbor that night.” The line went dead.

It didn’t take long to ring up her list.

Hal Douglas didn’t seem affronted by her question. “Yeah, I was jogging about the time Harriet was killed, but I took a path through the bird refuge. I didn’t see a soul,” he said cheerfully. “As for Sunday morning, I was asleep. And I don’t have any idea about last July.” His voice dropped. “Do you really think somebody murdered your uncle?”

Annie was relieved when Janis Farley answered rather than Jeff. She replied to the questions in a low, uneasy voice. She and Jeff, she insisted, were at breakfast together Sunday morning and were playing Scrabble Monday evening. Annie could imagine her looking over her shoulder as she spoke.

Fritz Hemphill listened, then said distinctly, “Go to hell.”

Before he could hang up, she threw out, “Do you still have the rifle you used to shoot Mike Gonzalez?”

“Funny thing, Annie. Dead men don’t talk.” His voice continued, cold and uninflected. “Neither do dead women. Sure, I got that gun. I still hunt with it.”

Capt. Mac was encouraging. “Have you found out anything?”

“A lot. Some of it, you wouldn’t believe.”

“I’d believe it. I was a cop for a long time.”

It wasn’t hard to ask him. “Where were you when Harriet died?”

“In and out. No alibi, unfortunately. I’m transplanting some crape myrtle, so I was around the patio most of the time. You know, the privacy on Broward’s Rock is great, but sometimes I wish I had a nosy neighbor.”

“There’s Carmen Morgan,” she offered.

He chuckled. “The lady doesn’t spend a lot of time in her garden.”

The bedroom was her more likely habitat, but neither of them said it.

“Have you talked to Saulter about Harriet?” she asked.

“Yeah, but there isn’t much to report. Place was wiped clean of fingerprints. Saulter thought that was interesting. I did, too. It might indicate the killer was caught by surprise. Otherwise, you’d think he would be wearing gloves.”

Capt. Mac said he was probably in the shower Sunday morning. He remembered that he’d spent the evening working on his car the night Ambrose drowned.

Annie rang Carmen Morgan.

“Monday afternoon? Geez, I don’t know. I don’t keep track of my time like a shop girl.”

“That was just yesterday,” Annie reminded her in a long-suffering tone which caused Max to look up and grin.